


cracker snap(chat)s

by gdgdbaby



Category: Selfie (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Holiday Shenanigans, POV Outsider, Slice of Life, Yuletide 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>KinderKare Pharmaceutical's 2014 New Years' Eve Party really is one for the books. It's too bad Eliza can barely remember any of it, especially the part that matters most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cracker snap(chat)s

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dudavocado](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dudavocado/gifts).



> spoilers up till episode 10, canon divergent by 11.

On January 2nd, 2015, Eliza Dooley comes to work an hour late, with no Starbucks and no mascara on.

In fact, she steps out of the elevator completely make-up free, minus the residual track marks of whatever blush she'd had on at the New Years' Eve Party. Charmonique can tell all the way from the circulation desk, if only because of how prominent Eliza's eye bags are.

And it isn't just the lack of make-up that throws the entire picture out of whack. The top Eliza's wearing has red and green stripes and a blooming poinsettia at the left shoulder. Something between _ugly holiday sweater contest_ and _dug out of Mom's attic because laundry hasn't been done in two months_ in terms of clothing tiers. Under normal circumstances, Eliza would never even admit to owning it, let alone wear it out of the house.

At length, Charmonique realizes she's staring. As she drops her gaze, Eliza stomps toward the desk, and bends over the counter like some sort of ginger weeping willow. "Charmonique," she says, out of breath. "Charmonique, Charmonique, Charmonique. Hey, look at me!"

"Morning, Eliza," Charmonique says, lifting her head from her perfect manicure and giving Eliza another once-over. Upon closer inspection, Eliza looks a lot rougher than expected. Of course, drinking half a bottle of gin and doing a set of complicated calisthenics on top of the bar at an office holiday party will do probably do that to a person. Charmonique wouldn't know. At these functions, she aims to keep both feet planted firmly on the ground at all times. "Stay over at Freddy's again?"

Charmonique doesn't exactly consider herself the Gossip Girl of KinderKare Pharmaceutical. She doesn't part with her knowledge easily, after all, and doesn't actually run a blog about her findings. But the receptionist extraordinaire of any office naturally has her finger on her pulse of whatever happens within its four walls, and usually everything that happens outside of them, and—well.

The recent Higgs-Dooley Cold War was no secret to anyone. Neither, really, is the fact that Freddy's still been following Eliza around like a sick puppy. Charmonique's a little surprised he hasn't popped up already, swoop drooping, five o'clock shadow covering his delicious jawline, reaching for Eliza like a man who's just spent the past forty days in the desert.

Fortunately, Eliza isn't so out of it that she doesn't send Charmonique the most wrinkled expression her face can manage. "Of course not." And then her face melts into something less certain, the emotional corollary to her current state of undress. "Charmonique—you have to help me."

"Sorry, girl, I can't in good conscience compliment that sweater. You could ask me for a lot of things, Eliza, but don't ask me to sacrifice my impeccable taste, I won't do it."

"It's not that!" Her mouth, somehow still pink as ever even without the usual Cherry Lush, twists into a grimace. "It's about the party. Wednesday's party."

"Ah," says Charmonique, crisis-radar pinging. "Continue."

Eliza looks down at her feet. "I can't remember anything past drinking half a bottle of gin and trying to avoid Freddy all night. I spent the entire day yesterday thinking about it, and—nothing! I didn't even check my phone, I was thinking so hard." She pulls it out from the pocket of her skinny jeans—skinny jeans! Eliza! At work!—and slams it on the table. "Maybe that has something to do with it being totally dead, but whatever." She rubs her temples, eyes fluttering shut. "Help me remember, Charmonique. You must've seen something."

Charmonique narrows her eyes. "And why is it so important to you?"

Eliza leans in close, slides a hand through her frazzled hair. "Because," she whispers, eyes narrowing into slits. "I woke up at Henry's."

 

 

As a rule, Charmonique tries not to get too involved in workplace relationships. It isn't even about her, really, though she would never date anyone at the office, anyway (not enough hunks, too many chumps). But the point is—inserting herself into the relationships of others never works well either, especially when they fail, and both parties still have to work with each other. Bad vibes mess with the work environment. Best to avoid it altogether.

Eliza is here, now, asking her to get involved. She's in a truly awful Christmas sweater, dead phone in her hand, two-day-old blush discoloring her chin, asking Charmonique for help, because, over the past two months, she's miraculously gone from the Eliza too glued to her phone to say good morning to the receptionist to the Eliza who actually is, for all intents and purposes, her friend.

As if on cue, Henry strolls from the office proper and comes around the left of Charmonique's desk. He stops short in the hallway and just stares at Eliza for a moment—possibly taking in the ridiculous view, possibly something else entirely. Raj, on the way up to Saperstein's office, nearly runs into him. Pushes Henry another step closer with a jostling elbow and a bowing apology, before disappearing up the elevator.

Charmonique watches the old Western standoff occurring in front of her desk with interest. Way more riveting than last night's _How to Get Away With Murder_ , no disrespect to Shonda. Real life was just—realer. "If you dare say something about my clothing being inappropriate for work," Eliza says, voice admirably level, "I will never speak to you again."

"It's—ah," Henry says, grasping for words. "It's a lovely sweater?"

"It's a disgusting sweater," Charmonique puts in helpfully. Henry puts a hand to his mouth, a nervous tic if Charmonique's ever seen one, and takes another step closer. Eliza tries to move back but nearly slips, gripless flats skidding against the linoleum tile.

Henry, gallant man that he is, leaps forward to catch her elbow before she can fall. His brow wrinkles, the corners of his mouth turning down. "Have you eaten anything? Do you know how dangerous low blood sugar levels are?"

"Henry," Eliza blurts out. "Why are you talking to me again?"

"What do you mean?" His brow inherits another wrinkle. "Don't you remember what happened on Wednesday night?"

Watching Eliza struggle for words is painful, especially when she always has so many. Charmonique clicks her nails on the counter and clears her throat. "You were fantastically drunk by the midnight countdown. Prince Charming here rescued you from Freddy's clutches and let you crash at his place, during which he apologized for his behavior and bundled you into bed."

Eliza stares at her. "You knew? This whole time?" she says, at the same time Henry asks, " _How?_ "

Charmonique waves her phone. "It was all on Snapchat, friends. You know, Eliza, you're a _fantastic_ drunk typer. No typos at all. You gotta teach me how to do that."

But Eliza's already turned back to Henry, mouth pressed together, something soft in her eyes. "You really apologized? It doesn't count if I was drunk. I don't remember a thing. Snapchats expire."

Henry shuffles his feet. Then he looks up, uncertain. "Would you like me to do it again?"

"Not here, kids," Charmonique says, waving her hand. Her workspace is being invaded by a strong case of emotions, and it's messing with the pleasant cinnamon scented potpourri. "I've heard there's a very nice, very private bathroom on the third floor that you can use."

"That's so unhygienic," Henry says, appalled, at the same time Eliza replies, offhand, "Oh, yeah, I've used that one loads of times."

Henry sends her a wary look. Eliza smiles, radiant as the sun, blooming with affection. She pats Henry's shoulder, links their arms together, and marches down the hallway with her head held high, despite the drooping poinsettia on her sweater and the bird's nest of her hair. "We'll work on that."


End file.
